


By The Language of Flowers

by lapsus_calami



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Short, Tumblr Prompt, and stiles buys a hate bouquet and takes said advice literally, can be read as gen or preslash, in which derek makes bouquets and offers unsolicited advice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-15
Updated: 2016-06-15
Packaged: 2018-07-15 04:21:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7207646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lapsus_calami/pseuds/lapsus_calami
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek thought the weirdest customer to ever grace the confines of his flower shop would be the old lady who demanded two hundred blood red roses for an undisclosed reason, but she might have just been beat out by the young man who barged in and demanded, "How do I passive-aggressivley say fuck you in flower?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	By The Language of Flowers

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a terrible person. I promise I'm working on the next chapter for This Burden Came To Me, really. But I was struck by inspiration when I scrolled by [this](http://demisexualmerrill.tumblr.com/post/145668425096) tumblr post.

**By The Language Of Flowers**

Derek carefully slid the last rose into the bouquet he’d been working on for the last few hours. He pressed it down with gentle pressure, settling it perfectly among the other flowers and stepped back to eye the whole thing critically before deciding it was as good as it was going to get. 

He ducked beneath the counter to pull out some floral wire and cellophane having to rummage around a bit before he found a suitable color that would nicely compliment the bouquet he’d just completed. Finally locating the lilac cellophane he set the tape on the counter above him and pulled the roll free. The shop door slammed open then shut rattling the bell loudly, and Derek frowned rising to his feet. 

Standing up fully he was startled to come face to face with a seething individual on the other side of the counter. The customer was young, probably early twenties with pale skin and dark hair spiked up to look artfully disarrayed. His doe brown eyes were narrowed, mouth thinned into a displeased line. It was entirely disarming; Derek was not used to having angry customers storm into the shop. Usually the people coming in were happy or sheepishly trying to make up for something stupid they’d done. Maybe sad if they needed a funeral arrangement.

The customer slapped a twenty down with a fleshy whack, face twisting into a disgruntled scowl as he said, “How do I passive-agressivley say fuck you in flower?”

“I, sorry, what?” Derek said clutching the lilac cellophane in front of him as if it would protect him from whatever crazy this man had been smoking. 

“You know,” the man said gesturing wildly. “The language of flowers! Red means passion, and yellow means sorry, and white means pure--”

“Yellow means friendship,” Derek interrupted without thinking.  

The man snapped his fingers. “Exactly!” he exclaimed. “You know exactly what I’m talking about. So how do I say a great big fuck you?” 

“Uh,” Derek said. “Can I, I mean...nevermind.” He probably most definitely did not want to know the story behind this. The man watched him expectantly as he set the cellophane aside and tried to gather his thoughts. For a second he allowed himself to recognize that this was probably the weirdest customer encounter he’d ever had, then wracked his brain for everything he could remember about flower meanings. Negative expressions were usually not what customers were seeking so his skills in that department were a little rusty. 

The man just watched him silently, half leaning over the counter and practically vibrating in place. Derek wasn’t sure if it was from unbridled rage at whoever the flowers were meant for or if he just naturally always seemed to be in motion. 

“Well, I guess we could start with geraniums?” Derek said finally letting his tone shift up at the end in question. “To symbolize stupidity.”

The man nodded, sharp eyes darting over the flowers the shop like he was seeking out the flower Derek named; Derek wasn’t sure he’d know which one it was as he didn’t strike Derek as a particularly horticultural type. Rather he seemed the type to not know the difference between a tulip, carnation, or rose.

“Uh, foxglove can be taken to mean insincerity,” Derek continued warming to the subject and the light of eager glee shining in the man’s eyes. “Meadowsweet means uselessness, yellow carnations can mean that someone has disappointed you, and orange lilies mean hatred.” He frowned picturing the array of proposed flowers and colors. “It would be quite striking,” he said. 

“And full of loathing,” the man added sounding exceptionally pleased at the notion. “I love it. How long will it take?” 

“Um...I can probably whip up a quick arrangement,” Derek said still wondering in the back of his mind what this was all about but a little too unnerved by the near manic expression in the man’s eyes to ask. “Like thirty minutes? If you want it now, I mean.” 

The man frowned then nodded curtly, tapping a long and tapered finger rapidly against the counter. “Sure,” he said. “I’ll wait.” 

“Okay,” Derek said for lack of anything better. It was unnerving to go about making the arrangement while the man watched him; he could feel the customer’s gaze heavy on his back as he made his way around the shop carefully selecting the decided upon flowers. Even if it was a bouquet meant as an expression of hatred there was no reason it couldn’t still look nice. 

Once he’d gathered the required flowers and greenery, he set about starting the arrangement, picking out the flowers with the longest stems and trimming some of the others shorter. 

The man leaned against the counter, watching attentively with a look of contemplation, idly tracing his fingers along an imagined pattern. “You’re Derek Hale, right?” he asked. “Of the Hale family? Son of the late Talia Hale and brother of Laura Hale?” 

Derek paused then nodded. “That’s right,” he said as if it wasn’t obvious. “Hence the shop name,” he added dryly because, yeah, it was kind of obvious. 

It didn’t take much deduction to figure out who he was since he was the only man working in a flower shop called  _All Hale The Petals_. The shop had been Laura’s idea and the name curtsey of Cora; it was odd then that Derek was the one usually working, but perhaps not surprising given that Cora was currently attending university and Laura held another job in addition to her work at the shop. 

“My dad responded to the fire,” the man continued, fingers never ceasing their endless motion. “The one at your house, I mean. Your old house.” 

Derek paused again wondering if the man would realize how inappropriate that comment had been on his own or if Derek should point it out. He was making the man a hate bouquet, not exactly the time to bring up one of the community’s biggest tragedies to one of the few survivors. 

“I’m sorry,” the man said shifting against the counter and sounding terribly contrite. The apology came easy though, like he was used to making them. “That was incredibly insensitive. Lydia would be ashamed of me. I just, uh, what I mean is I’m sorry. Both for bringing it up and for it, uh, happening, I guess. I know it was really difficult for everyone.” 

“Your dad is a firefighter?” Derek asked beginning the task of carefully arranging the flowers again. He wasn’t sure why he was expanding on the conversation, only that he was, for some reason, actually curious. He didn’t recognize the other man, but it was clear the man had recognized him and seemed aware of the fire beyond the usual level of most individuals in the city. 

“A firefighter?” the man said. “No.” 

“EMT?” Derek guessed. 

The man laughed lightly. “No, uh, actually he’s the sheriff. But he was a deputy at the time.” 

Derek froze. The sheriff. Sheriff Stilinski. Deputy Stilinski. Derek remembered him; he also remembered the man only had one son, a little hellion that had raised more than his share of trouble around Beacon Hills before leaving to go to school in Davis. 

“You’re Stiles Stilinski,” he said turning to stare at the man with a slack jaw. “You--”

“Yes, me,” Stiles said quirking an eyebrow. “I know I have a bit of a reputation.” 

Derek turned back to the nearly finished arrangement, taking in the pleasing wash of orange and yellows among the greens with an entirely different perspective. “Uh, who is this for?” 

“Hm? Oh the flowers?” Stiles asked. “They’re for my friend.” 

Derek frowned. “Your...friend?” 

“Yeah, Scott. He’s moving to France for graduate school.  _France_ ,” he repeated with emphasis as if to drill in how terribly far away he thought the country was. “He just told me so I wanted to get him something that really communicated my feelings but was also thoughtful, you know?” 

“No,” Derek said. “I’m not sure I follow.” 

“Scott’s my best friend, you see,” Stiles explained morosely leaning even more fully on the counter. “And we were supposed to go to grad school together or at least  _near_  each other. But he’s going to France and I’m staying in California. It’s ridiculous.” 

“Yes,” Derek agreed though for an entirely different reason. “It is.” 

“I mean, we’ve always done everything together!” Stiles said flinging his hands out as if to symbolize the everything. “And then he goes off and decides to go to  _France_. And all because of a girl. A  _girl,_  Derek.” 

Derek didn’t get a chance to respond to that, Stiles barreling off on another tangent before he could get a word in edgewise. 

“And I mean, Allison’s a lovely girl, she is. But is she really lovely enough to moved half-way around the globe and abandon your best friend in the process? I don’t think so,” Stiles answered himself clearly not expecting a response from Derek. “And, like, I didn’t follow Lydia to New York when Scott decided to go to Davis so I’d expect a little of the same consideration.” 

Derek quietly finished up the bouquet, wrapping it in clear cellophane while Stiles continued his rant on the ungratefulness and transgressions of Scott’s recent activities. Once finished he thrust it over the counter into Stiles’ face, startling the other man into silence. 

“Wow,” Stiles said, silence lasting no more than two seconds. “That actually looks really nice.” He gently took the flowers from Derek, twisting them this way and that to inspect every inch of the arrangement. 

“That’ll be twenty-four ninety-five,” Derek said blandly. 

Stiles glanced at him from over the cluster of foxglove and geraniums and carnations. “Worth the extra five,” he conceded fishing a five from his pocket and placing it on top of the twenty. “You can keep the change. I hate loose pennies.” 

Derek nodded swiping the two bills from the counter and placing them in the register. “And Stiles?” he said as the other man turned away. Stiles looked back, pausing as Derek spoke. “Get over it. Scott’s moving to France, not Pluto. And there’s this amazing invention called the telephone and email and even this handy thing called Skype or FaceTime. Failing all that, I hear writing letters still works so I’m sure the two of you will survive.” 

Stiles drew his eyebrows together expression hovering somewhere between offended and amused. 

“And if you’re really this nervous and upset at losing your best friend to a country across the ocean maybe you need to try and find a few more friends here while he’s gone. That way you won't be so terribly codependent,” Derek said smirking slightly at Stiles’ borderline contemplative expression. “Have a nice day and thank you for coming to  _All Hale The Petals_  for your floral needs.” 

Stiles moved towards the doors without a word, pausing at the end of the aisle with the daffodils, eyeing the yellow flower with interest before asking, “How much for a single flower?” 

Derek raised a single brow. “For a daffodil? Three ninety-nine.” 

Stiles nodded to himself long fingers ghosting over several flowers before choosing one and delicately pulling it free. He returned to the counter, laying the hate bouquet on the counter and pulling out another five. Again he handed it over saying, “Keep the change.” 

Derek rung up the purchase, placing the new five with the other and watching Stiles warily as he gathered his flowers then rocked back on his heels. After a moment he held the daffodil out to Derek with a near blinding smile.

“I don’t understand,” Derek said looking between the flower and Stiles. “Are you returning your purchase?” 

“Nope,” Stiles said popping his ‘p’ at the end. “It’s for you.” 

“For me?” Derek repeated even as he reached out to accept the yellow flower from Stiles’ hand. 

“Yes, for you,” Stiles said taking a few steps from the counter. “I’ll see you around, Derek.” 

Derek watched him leave, bell tinkling above the door as it was pushed open and fell shut. He inspected the flower in his hand appreciating the cheerful yellow of the petals before darting his gaze back to Stiles who was just pulling out of the lot in his old, beat up Jeep. 

Surely Stiles didn’t know what daffodils meant and it was entirely a coincidence. After all, a man who demanded his help to construct a hate bouquet couldn’t possibly know what daffodils traditionally meant, right? 

**Author's Note:**

> Now I shall return to writing This Burden Came To Me. Feel free to pester me on [tumblr](http://little-red-and-his-wolves.tumblr.com)


End file.
